


itch and thirst

by Cat_Face



Series: suzuki likes affection [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ahegao, Attempt at Humor, Coming In Pants, Deepthroating, Dissociation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fear of Discovery, Forehead Kisses, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Past Anal Sex, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Skull Fucking, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Face/pseuds/Cat_Face
Summary: In which Suzuki scratches an itch in his throat... with a cock.*with a special sfw bonus chapter!





	1. after school

**Author's Note:**

> based off my frustration
> 
> can be read on its own, but some parts refer to the previous work in the series. minor edits to fix grammar/spelling if i happen to find any more.
> 
> not mentioned in tags: adult is inhuman but humanoid.

Suzuki first noticed the itch, small and unassuming in the back of his throat, four days after his… incident. It reached deep inside his neck, and he’d press down—hard—on the squishy skin just above the middle of his clavicle to “scratch” at it. His pulse would thump through the pads of his fingers. It eased the itch, if only temporarily. At times when it wasn’t enough, he’d trail his fingers upward and press at the hard lump in the middle of his neck. It’d send delighted shivers down his spine, and he’d remember the large hand that had brushed up against his throat and held him in submission with a single finger.

He’d tried to push the thought away, of course, but the itch only worsened as days went by. Sometimes, he’d have a small coughing fit when it became too much. He couldn’t subdue it lest he wanted to suffer the weird stares of his friends, wondering why on Earth he was pressing his hand so roughly to his neck.

The fits would happen especially often during class. He’d tried to keep his coughing volume minimal, self-conscious of how loud he was in a room full of whispering teenagers. He didn’t know why the itch was there; it just _was._ It was embarrassing; humiliating, even.

...but not as humiliating as the morning after his “incident.”

 

**11:21 AM, 2 weeks prior**

He’d woken up wrapped in blankets, up to his neck, with the back of his head atop his pillow; clean and dry and his phone plugged in and charged.

Warm sunlight filtered through the opened shutters of his window. He blinked his eyes blearily against the light, adjusting slowly. It took approximately 30 seconds for his eyes to snap open in realization, but he made no move to throw the blanket off his body. He was too comfortable. Instead, he assessed his situation with eerie clarity—intruder: gone!, body: not sore?, limbs: movable, parents: oblivious?—and stayed silent.

Memory: intact…

The only physical remnant of the night before was his naked lower half, tickled by the fabric of his blanket, and the low thrum of remnant arousal in his belly. His shorts and underwear were gone; somehow he didn’t think he’d see those garments ever again. The soiled bed sheets were now clean, as were the wet spots on his blanket and the tear stains on his pillow. His parents had already left the bedroom, their various Japanese chattering heard over the hum of a television in what he presumed to be the living room.

Suzuki had a strong inkling that his parents _weren’t_ the ones responsible for cleaning him up.

His head was clear and awake, yet he dazedly snaked his right hand around his penis because he _remembered_. He remembered _everything_. He held himself in his hand, warming his member, letting himself feel it. He vaguely remembered the person’s hand around his cock, milking him even when he begged them to stop, remembered the pruned thumb that dug its wrinkled skin into his slit, the nails that scraped against his prostate, the nubs that mercilessly ground into it afterwards. He began to harden in his hand, and he lazily massaged his thumb into the side of his tip.

He remembered the first time he had came, powerful yet oddly gentle compared to his later orgasms, and a drip of pre-cum oozed from his slit.

With his thumb, he rubbed and swiped the fluid across his glans, unable to hold back a moan. That action seemed to open a floodgate, and a rush of vivid sensations filled his mind as his eyes squeezed shut. He remembered wetness between his thighs and a lewd sound accompanying every flick of the person’s wrist on his cock, a hiccuped breath escaping his mouth with every movement. Their hand had expertly twisted and kneaded their fingers into his head, making use of every drop of liquid that spilled from him. Suzuki clumsily mimicked the motions in real time. His cock had already started to leak a steady stream of pre-cum, and he worked it into his tip like lotion. He panted into the crisp morning air, rutting against the hand around his cock, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt and bunching it up at his chest. It was getting hot and stuffy, sticky and moist; it reminded him of his frantic pleas getting ignored and the heady whines that escaped his throat, the hand continuing a steady rhythm even as he shuddered uncontrollably—and his hand was moving faster now, rubbing himself more fervently and he remembered how he couldn’t breathe because every breath would make a sound and if he was too loud the hand would stop and he didn’t want it to stop _god_ he _didn’t want it to stop!_

“Hnngh!” He gritted his teeth as his orgasm spilled over him, tensing his muscles as he arched his back up into his hand, his toes curling into the bed sheets as his feet pressed downwards to lift his body up. He felt his eyes open and a flash of light invade his vision, but somehow he couldn’t register anymore than that, the ceiling fan above him a simple blur of beige. His initial choked moan broke off into gasping breaths as he remembered that he didn’t need to be utterly silent without his parents in the room. He remembered the way the person’s hand had continued to knead him through his orgasm, and he did the same to himself, riding out his pleasure in waves as his hips gyrated into his hand.

And then he remembered the dull stretch of thick fingers buried in his ass, spreading him open at a leisure pace. He remembered how the penetration had progressed to him getting rammed by a forceful, ribbed cock— one that grated and rubbed and _pounded_ right into his prostate with its wide girth—and without realizing it, he’d flipped onto his stomach and gotten on his knees beneath the blanket, which stuck to his sweaty skin. His right hand, still wet with his juices, reached behind him and slicked the liquid onto his soft hole. He continued to rub circles into his rim as he remembered how it felt to be held down and rocked into like it was all he was good for. He felt pulses of pleasure shoot through his spine when he recalled the many orgasms forced out of him by the hard little nubs that rubbed right into his sweet spot, remembered the way a hand clamped down on his mouth to silence his otherwise wailing pleas to _wait_ , the body atop of him using its weight to press down down down, the wetness under the tip of his cock as he spurted once, twice, three times in quick succession as the bed creaked steadily— his middle finger was knuckle-deep in his hole now— the fabric of his bed sheets rustling with every helpless writhe of his body, punctuated by intermittent spasms as another orgasm fucked his mind— his finger couldn’t quite reach that spot inside of him but it felt good, it felt so good— He remembered the shift in position and suddenly he’d been on top of the person with his knees on the side of their thighs, the hands gripped on his waist jostling him back and forth on their cock as his eyes rolled back and struggled to stay quiet without the hand across his mouth— he slipped another finger into his hole and stretched them apart, feeling drool start to pool onto his pillow— he’d let out panicked mewls on every downwards slam of his body onto their pelvis, sounds that he could barely control as several clusters of nubs would violently grate against his prostate— three fingers now, thrusting in and out, his left hand around his cock and stroking— and he’d came over and over, kept upright only by the hands at his waist that lifted him up and pulled him down again and again with an obscene smack of skin-on-skin, making the bed creak loudly and the noises that escaped him more pitiful; desperately whispered Japanese and English words, pleas, gibberish; he just couldn’t _think_ , couldn’t even remember his name; he just knew that he had to stay quiet because his parents were right _there_ and he was getting fucking _pummeled and it felt so fucking GOOD—_

“Hnnmph!” He clenched around his fingers as his eyes rolled back, lashes brushing against his pillow, body spasming and jerking as he spurted onto the bed sheets. He legs parted wider and his chest pressed into the mattress, arching his back to stick his ass out. Explosive pleasure fluttered his vision, and he had to remove his hand from his cock to grip at his pillowcase to steady himself. He turned his head to bury his teary eyes into his pillowcase, struggling to breathe properly as his body twitched with every random spike of orgasmic pleasure. This orgasm was decidedly much more powerful than the first; his body quivered with its aftershocks for several minutes. His fingers remained buried deep inside of him as a source of strange comfort.

He didn’t know how long he stayed in that compromising position. His parents could’ve walked in at any time, yet his blissed out mind couldn’t seem to muster up the strength to care. It wasn’t until the growing hunger pangs in his stomach became too much to bear that he removed his aching fingers from his hole with a slight _pop_ and shakily crawled out of bed for the bathroom. The stale, chilled air made him shiver the entire way.

In the bathroom, he pointedly ignored his reflection of puffy eyes and flushed cheeks in favor for quickly brushing his teeth and stepping into the shower.

He didn’t step out until an entire 40 minutes later, his skin pruned. His eyes were puffier than before he’d went in, and some would even notice that his hole was just a little tiny bit looser. Perhaps he became preoccupied with more memories of the night before—namely the bit where the person had lifted him up, with ease, and fucked him on their cock while standing 7 inches away from his father’s face—but he’d never admit that. He dressed in loose clothing after drying himself with a fluffed towel, not bothering to blow dry his hair. After combing back his dark wet hair with a stray comb that was more than likely his mother’s, he turned on his heel to leave the bathroom.

… only to pause in front of the door. Few seconds of contemplation passed by, and he turned back around to snatch a washcloth off the sink’s counter before swinging the door open determinedly.

With a damp washcloth in hand, he headed towards his bed to haphazardly clean up the evidence of his debauchery… only to find his blanket and sheets unspoiled and dry, his bed tidied up and neat. The only thing off was…

His grey shorts and white underwear, cut at the hips’ seams, lying on top of his pillow. He tentatively reached out and twisted his fingers into the clothing.

Dry.

Suzuki knew it wasn’t his parents who’d done it… his mother would’ve killed him for cutting up his clothes, and his father had no qualms about snitching on him.

He swallowed as he realized the only explanation for his cleaned bed.

 

**2:21 PM, present day**

“Suzuki, you sound like you have tuberculosis.” Michael jokes, raising his eyebrows as Suzuki breaks into another coughing fit. The person in question rolls his eyes from behind the crook of his elbow as his tablemates snicker around him.

“God, I remember that entire ‘watch out for TB!’ fiasco last year,” Linh chimes in, her voice high-pitched and pretty. “Whole school went into a frenzy just because of some email.” The people around her nod in agreement, chittering as they themselves remembered the event.

“I don’t even know why I’m coughing so much.” Suzuki says. His breath then hitched on an inhale, throwing him into another fit of coughing. He’d been hacking and wheezing so violently that sometimes he felt like he could vomit from it.

After his fit passes, he says “Like, I just started coughing out of nowhere! How does that even happen?”

His group goes quiet in pity. Behind him, the rest of the class chatters amongst themselves.

“Tuberculosis.” Michael says in a dramatically serious tone, interrupting the silence. The table group pauses for a moment before bursting into giggles. Suzuki himself laughs for a bit before another hitched breath sends him into a frenzy. He groans in frustration after it passes, banging his forehead against his chemistry workbook. He is _so_ over coughing his lungs out.

“Wish I could stick something down my throat and just make it stop,” Suzuki whines, half-serious. “It feels like a whole fire ant crawled down there and made babies.”

“Mmm, that sounds like a you-problem.” Julie teases in a grossly pitched voice as Linh says “Eww!”

Michael guffaws. “Think that ant must’ve been the huge one right? If it made babies.”

“The queen?” Grace asks sardonically.

Michael ignores the mockery, or embraces it, and says enthusiastically, “Yeah, the queen! Grace, you’re so smart.” She rolls her eyes.

Suzuki ponders it for a moment, then says “I think I wouldn’t mind something as big as an ant queen. Then I could just cough it out and be done with it _—_ "

“Can we, like, not talk about this?” Linh interrupts him, looking slightly sick. “We literally have like 23 workbook pages to do.”

“Ooh look at me, productive student who only has _23_ workbook pages left,” Michael mocks her playfully, then in his normal voice he says “Ya boy here has the entire unit to do.”

Suzuki joins the table’s laughs, always a fan of self-deprecating jokes, before coughing up another storm. Michael, sitting in the desk next to him, reaches over and thumps his back. Hard. It doesn’t help much.

Suzuki appreciates it anyway.

“What did y’all get on the WHAP test?” Julie asks as a change of topic, checking her phone. “I got a whole ass 78.” She announces her grade loudly, not looking like she cares.

“Weren’t we supposed to trade our phones in for calculators?” Grace asks, eyeing her friend’s phone. Julie recoils and glances at the teacher on the opposite side of the room, bringing an index finger to her lips. Nobody was sure what she was going to say until she opened her mouth and said:

“Shhh, babe keep a secr _-_ "

“Ewww!!” Linh and Grace both cut her off, “Absolutely disgusting!” The two of them still join in the cackling laughter of the entire table, with Julie laughing the loudest. Suzuki is, quite literally, wheezing.

“That meme is so stupid,” He says breathlessly.

“That’s what makes it funny though,” Michael chortles in response. The table group once again nods in agreement, sharing their thoughts on the comedic value of memes in a blend of chatter.

Linh unzips a pocket in her clean grey backpack and pulls out her phone. Everyone turns their attention to her and raises an eyebrow but stays quiet otherwise. They wait for her to tell them her grade.

“84!” She says, beaming. Everyone cheers.

“That’s my girl!” Julie drags out the er sound in girl, reaching over the table to high-five her friend that sat across from her. Linh lets out a tamed “ew” but returns the high-five anyway.

Everybody’s pulled out their phones by now. Suzuki scrolls through his pages and presses down to click on Skyward, the grading app, when a notification appears on his screen.

He freezes.

He slowly slides his right thumb to the edge of his screen to read the notification. It’s the same one as last time, at least as far as he remembers: nearly opaque white and similar to low battery notifications. Only, there’s slightly different text this time.

 

Would you like to meet again? If yes, press OK. If no, press outside the box.

OK

 

The OK is greyed out like he was selecting it. He guesses that his attempt to click Skyward had registered for the OK button.

Suzuki glances up from his phone to the people around him, sharing their grades and congratulating, or laughing, at one another. “I got a 92,” he hears Grace deadpan. People cheer for her with enthusiasm despite her lack of it. “80 here, esketit!” Michael whoops and hollers. People laugh and tease his excitement in good fun.

He brings his eyes back down to his phone.

Here? _Now?_

He has to think fast. Meeting again means that he will get… he will feel good.  He remembers the pleasure, the mind-numbing pleasure, but he also remembers the shame that washed over him after his initial high of decadence—he’d gotten violated in the same room as his parents, and he _liked_ it. He got aroused knowing that his parents could have caught him! He was brought to orgasm over and over by someone, no, _something_ _—_ he corrects himself when he remembers their decidedly inhuman penis—and he just… and then he enjoyed the gentle touches of affection, basked in the praise of a stranger that contrasted so sharply with their rough treatment of his body and he just… he just took it. Like that.

It makes him feel beyond shameful. It makes him feel immoral.

But _god_ , he knows how good it feels. He thinks back to all of his late-night masturbation sessions for the past weeks, thinks about how he doesn’t even need to scour for porn videos suitable to his taste, thinks about those hard, little _nubs_ and he shivers as the memory of them sends tingles up his spine. He stares at the greyed out OK button for a few long seconds, then reasons with himself that he doesn’t have much of a choice anyway. The button’s already greyed out. Even if he didn’t want it, he’d select the OK when his finger lifts outside of the box. He doesn’t have a choice. He really doesn’t.

He doesn’t, right?

So Suzuki lifts his finger off his screen, and the itch in his throat worsens so abruptly that he drops his phone onto his lap to violently hack his lungs out.

 

**3:07 PM**

Suzuki grimaces as the whiteboard squeaks with every swipe of the foam eraser. It’s not nearly as bad as nails on a chalkboard, but the rubbery and airy noise of the foam irritates his ears and somehow makes his throat itch worse. He lifts the sleeved crook of his elbow to his mouth, coughing weakly into it to relieve some of the discomfort in his throat.

It’s so unsatisfying that he wants to cry.

The last of the dry erase markings are at the very top of the whiteboard, near the line of wooden cork used for pinning posters and seasonal ornaments. Suzuki, being just under 5’5’’, has to jump up to swipe at the markings with the eraser. He’s glad that there is nobody in the classroom to see him pitifully adapt to his small stature. His classmates had left with the dismissal bell at 2:45, his teacher around 3:00, but he’d stayed behind to wait for his father to come and pick him up at 4:45. It was an arrangement he and his parents made after their sudden decision to move houses. He would wait two hours, everyday, for his parents to pick him up instead of walking home alone. It was not as if his house was far, nor was there a high crime rate in the area; it was just that his mother seemed to be _really_ against him walking alone. And, him being a mother’s boy, easily succumbed to the treacherous two-hour wait everyday just to ease her fears.

He stops his mission of cleaning the whiteboard to slip his phone out of his back pocket, checking the time.

15:09, it reads. A little more than an hour and thirty minutes until his father arrives.

The notification from earlier hangs at the forefront of his mind, but he distracts himself with tidying the classroom. His teacher, Jennison, trusts him enough to leave him unsupervised in a room full of chemicals and worksheet answers on the daily, so the least he could do is clean up after his rowdy friends to keep that trust. He’s not sure what made the woman trust him in the first place, to be honest.

Suzuki pockets his phone and resumes cleaning, letting his mind wander.

Maybe it’s because he’s smart. Or a hard worker. Most of the tests he takes come back with perfect marks, but it’s not as if he does any dutiful six-hour study sessions. Everything that’s said in class just seems to stick to his mind like flies in a fly trap. As a testament to his sometimes cursed memory, he still remembers all of the Spanish-speaking countries he memorized in middle school Spanish. The godforsaken [song](https://youtu.be/Nw1H8aIhKNk?t=181) just can’t seem to leave his mind.

As if summoned from the very depths of hell, a far-too-familiar tune begins to drum in his head as he places the foam eraser down onto the steel railing of the whiteboard. _Caracas, Venezuela. Bogota, Colombia; Quito, Ecuador; Lima, Peru. La Paz. Bolivia, Asun-ción, Paraguay; Santiago, Chile…_ The music plays in his head without hesitation. He backs away from the whiteboard and surveys his efforts. There are still a few marks that he couldn’t erase despite his rough rubbing with the foam eraser, but that’s probably because he needs Windex or water to clean it. The song continues to thump in his head.

The more the song progresses, the more he can’t help but feel a dopey smile stretch across his face as he flashbacks to 7th grade when he, Michael, and Julie would sing the song to one another as a joke. Comfortable silences would be distraught with the accursed tune, forever ingrained in their memories. The three of them still sang it to each other even now, in their sophomore year of high school, just to get a glimpse of their past adolescent selves and giggle in secrecy when their other friends, who had gone to different middle schools, looked at them in mild bewilderment.

Suzuki turns from the board and begins going around the various groups of 6-7 shiny grey tables to collect stray sheets of laminated periodic tables. The papers are a bright highlighter green, or maybe yellow, so they are hard to miss. He stacks them into a neat pile by clicking an edge of the papers onto a table, then places them into the appropriate tray near the teacher’s desk. He goes back around to collect calculators that his classmates neglected to put up in their rush of dismissal and puts them in their proper numbered caddy. Next, the clickers. They were small and strangely shaped, a bit like a bulky shrimp with an engorged head. They’re a little harder to collect in his arms, and he drops a few of them on his journey to the foam container where they’re stored, cringing when they clattered on the ground. He decides that he should probably carry them one or two at a time after an intense need to cough sends six of the clickers scattering across the floor. Once all of the clickers are accounted for, he finally turns his attentions to the littered trash around the room.

Even though most people would disagree with him, the act of flitting back and forth to throw trash away is his favorite part of cleaning up. It makes him feel important, like the trash in his hands is some kind of toxic agent that needs to be disposed of. It’s much better than sitting around and mindlessly scrolling through his phone; nobody ever contacts him outside of school-related things this early in the day anyway. So he enjoys it; he enjoys picking up lost pencils and keeping the ones that he thinks are nice, snooping around the floor for any crinkled wrappers, crumpling loose papers, perusing between desks to reach for that one oddly placed piece of trash. He enjoys walking over to the trash can and dumping his collection like some kind of human manifestation of a tractor, and he enjoys turning to the room and seeing his efforts make the place look 10x better.

Hell, just looking at the clean classroom made the itch in his throat just a bit more tolerable.

And, just as he thinks that, a burning claws up his throat and he coughs it out urgently into his elbow, sighing in defeat after it passes. He sullenly treads over to the special unfinished wooden desk that his backpack was on top of, situated at a higher elevation than the shiny grey desks around it, and plops down onto the chair that was conveniently pushed away from the desk, slipping his phone from his back pocket to place it on the wooden surface.

As Suzuki sits down, he feels the sudden appearance of a presence behind him a second too late and his butt lands in someone’s lap. He lets out a surprised squeak, his tense body scrambling to get back up. His phone clatters next to his backpack on the desk when he drops it in shock. A pair of thick, strong arms circle around his waist to pull him back down, snugly fitting him into the crevice of their thighs. His body is ramrod straight. One of the hands trail up his clothed body and purposely ghost over his right nipple before brushing up against his throat. A scarily warm and familiar chest presses against his back, and he leans away from it, onto the desk. The warmth only follows him as they push his diaphragm against the rubbered edge of the table. Suzuki clenches the same rubbered edge with the palms of his hands, attempting to push in the opposite direction. He holds his breath.

Please don’t hurt me

He feels a gentle kiss pressed to the side of his head at a sensitive spot just behind the tip of his ear, and he noticeably shivers, exhaling in a rush. A low chuckle, silky and rough, rumbles too close to his ear, and he feels their breath tickle the invisible hairs on his helix. The sound would’ve made him whimper if not for the blockage in his throat.

The thought of his throat makes him hyper aware of the fingers now poised on his neck. Their hand position forces his head to tilt slightly upwards. Each of the fingers are distinguishable, an innate sense of their shape and outline resonating within Suzuki’s mind. The person’s thumb rests in an indent where his throat protrudes from his skin, and he refrains from swallowing his watery mouth in trepidation. His pulse hammers against the ridged pad of their thumb. The knuckle of their index finger follows the curve of his jawline, just barely pushing up against his head to keep him in place. Their ring finger rests in the throat indent opposite of his thumb, mimicking a squeezing motion of his throat between the two fingers.

He focuses so much on their fingers that he doesn’t realize how relaxed he’s gotten in their lap. He leans against the desk lazily now, slumping against it and letting the person’s body support him up.

Their thumb slowly drags on his skin to the middle of his throat, where they begin to rub gentle circles. A soft exhale escapes from his mouth, and he tilts his head imperceptibly towards the mouth against his ear. He receives an answering nuzzle to his hair. The thumb then drags upwards to his chin, friction catching at it and causing temporary folds to form. It soon reaches his mouth, where it rests on the middle of his plump bottom lip. Suzuki’s breathes gentle puffs of air, warming the finger. His tongue reaches out to shyly meet the very tip of their thumb, and they reward him with a kiss to his ear, more of a sound than a feeling.

He swallows then, and it’s an inevitable mistake. He feels the rushing urge to purge his esophagus overtake his senses, and before he knows it, he’s jerking and spasming in the person’s lap as he coughs, wet and unfiltered. It’s morbidly satisfying and horribly unabashed. His right arm rushes to his his mouth and he jerks his neck away from their fingers so he can cough into his elbow, a final preservation of dignity. Their hand retracts from his mouth and tries to hold him steady in their lap. Suzuki is so embarrassed that he might as well just crawl in a hole and die, but even the shame is not enough to calm his stinging throat.

The person lets him cough freely, encouraging him to not hold anything back. His attempt to stifle himself by biting his lip had led to nails digging into his throat in warning, and he doesn’t do it again. Besides that one malicious movement, the fingers soothe him through his coughing until he’s spent and tired, breath rasping and throat burning.

Suzuki slumps onto the wooden desk, burying his face into his arms in embarrassment. He feels both of the person’s hands stroke his obliques lovingly through his clothing, and he squirms when the touches become increasingly noticeable. He’s always been ticklish.

His back arches without him realizing, sliding his body further into the person’s lap. The edge of the table cuts into the folds of his shirt as his chest presses into it. He feels one of their hands slip away from his waist and disappear. He wonders where it went only for a second before he feels a fingernail lightly graze the nape of his neck.

“Mh…” The nail trails down the middle of his back, following the line of his spine. Suzuki’s head lolls to the side of his arm. The further down the nail travels, the more his back arches instinctively. Pleasurable tingles make his body shiver in anticipation. The finger goes down all the way to his tailbone, lifting off with a feather-light touch and leaving him tense.

He feels them lean their body forward, looming behind him with their broad shoulders. Their arms loop around his waist in an embrace. Suzuki sleepily closes his eyes and lets himself relax in the warmth. It’s only when their crotch unintentionally grinds against the curve of his butt that he realizes that they have an unusually... solid and warm bulge behind their pants. He blinks open his eyes to the bright light and squints, concentrating on the feeling behind him.

...Are they _hard?_

An affectionate nose, then an almost sheepish simper, rubs against the back of his head. Suzuki stills in their lap. Then he sort of scoots his butt forward and backward to see if he’s hallucinating.

He’s not.

There’s an unmistakable, and familiar, hardness to the bulge in their pants. It digs into the crevice between the soft mounds of his buttocks, clothed by thin black sweatpants. One of their hands trails downwards and presses their thumb into his inner thigh. He inhales a breath that’s too quick, and it catches the subdued itch in his throat by surprise. The feeble coughing that follows jerks his body back and forth, unintentionally grinding his butt against their bulge. He tries to ignore the pleasure that sets a simmer of arousal in his belly. A sultry hum of approval from behind has him spreading his legs _just_ a bit wider and pushing his chest further against the desk, giving the bulge better access to the cleft of his butt.

Please

A hand then reaches up from underneath him and covers his eyes. It’s warm and soothing to his tired eyes; he’d went to sleep two hours later than he’d originally intended last night. He blinks a couple of times behind the hand in confusion before deciding to just close them. The other hand pats his tummy reassuringly.

The hand around his eyes is removed not even thirty seconds later, but Suzuki’s sight is still blanketed in darkness even after he opens them. It takes him about ten seconds to realize that all the lights in the room have turned off, the hallway outside of the classroom still bright and illuminating. He can barely see the whiteboard now. His mouth parts in bewilderment.

How..? The only way to turn the lights off are two switches located on the other side of the room..? Why?

He feels a kiss to the back of his neck, and a small noise squeaks from the back of his throat. The hand around his waist moves downward to pat his knee in a gesture that’s nothing short of saying _don’t worry about it_. Suzuki dubiously follows their advice.

Suddenly, a _ping_ pops from beside him, accompanied by a flash of blinding white light that burns his peripheral vision. He jumps in the person’s lap, sitting up and straightening his back. The action causes him to grind his butt roughly against their erection, and he registers a hiss from behind him as they grip a hand on the crook of his thigh. Suzuki doesn’t bother addressing their sound and instead reaches to pick up his now darkened phone. Upon pressing the power button, a text notification from his father obscures his lock screen, underneath the time reading **15:57**.

 

 **MESSAGES**  

**Father**

How are you?

 

He breathes a laugh when he sees the message, tamping down on the subdued urge to cough. He probably shouldn’t tell his father that he’s currently aroused in the lap of a stranger who got an erection from him _coughing_ , huh? And, as if knowing what Suzuki was thinking, the person behind him lets out a soft chortle from beside his head. Their breath blows onto the side of his ears.

The screen darkens again before he can type out a response, so he presses the power button once more. He draws his left hand, which had been resting on the desk, to the back of his phone. He positions his thumbs in the usual texting position and taps the screen to open his Messages app…

...Only to come to a stuttering stop when a notification bubble pops up just as his thumb touches the screen. With more force than is probably necessary, Suzuki presses down to make sure his finger doesn’t lift up. His heart drops to his stomach when he hurriedly slides his thumb to the side of his phone and notices that—once again—the OK button is greyed out.

 

Get on your knees.

OK

 

He stares at the notification. This again? How do they even get into his phone? And they didn’t even _ask_ this time; they just… ordered him. Suzuki knows it’s childish, but he feels a defiant streak rise up in his chest.

I don’t want to

So he keeps his finger on the screen, not daring to lift it up. In the back of his mind, he knows that he is only delaying the inevitable, but somehow the satisfaction of keeping his own against such a dirty trick—one that he’s fallen for twice already—gives him motivation to keep doing it. Suzuki feels a hand snake under his arm to graze his throat with its nails. He shivers and gulps but doesn’t succumb to their threat. They continue to lightly scratch at his neck with varying degrees of pressure, each one sending tingles of pleasure up his spine. A steadily burning itch threads itself within the back of his throat, but he ignores it as best as he can. He can’t cough. He just can’t.

Before long the fingers are massaging their pads into the hard lump in his neck. It’s just as soothing as it is uncomfortable, and Suzuki’s body traitorously relaxes into their lap. With their deliberate motions, the itch becomes only a dull sensation in the back of his mind, as does the warmth of the phone in his hand. A kiss to his head has him forgetting the reason why he was so adamant in resisting their order; a nuzzle and a sniff has him sliding his finger off of his phone and laying it face-down on the desk; and a chuckle has him blushing when he realizes he’d let out a whine as their hands pulled away from his neck.

Before he has time to register what he just signed himself up for, the person’s hands slide under his shirt and rest on different parts of his body. One hand, their right, warms his belly while the other warms the area above it. Their hands feel like heating pads, and Suzuki’s prone-to-cold body relaxes even further in their hold. He doesn’t have the strength to even make a noise when their left hand brushes against his nipple, instead only tensing and gripping their arm with his right hand. He feels a kiss pressed to the very top of his head, and he realizes that he’s leaned far back into their chest.

“Hhhn…” They pinch his nipple between their middle finger and thumb, rolling it gently. The ridges on their fingers massage his nipple with surreal dexterity. They tease him until his left nipple is sore from their ministrations, perky and warmed, then they switch hands. The hand around his belly is replaced by the hand that teased his left nipple. Their right hand sweeps up his skin to just barely skim his right nipple, which was hardened and begging for attention. They leisurely repeat their teasing motions on his right nipple, kissing the top of his head when he shudders for seemingly no reason. By the time the hand is done with his nipple, his cock is tight in his pants and his breathing is heavy.

Please

Suzuki blinks when he feels a change in the room’s atmosphere, and it’s so strange that he thinks he must’ve imagined it. The person’s hands slip out of his shirt and hold him steady by the waist. He feels a sudden shift backwards and hears the screech of a metal chair leg on a plastic floor. Suzuki dazedly registers the sounds and movements, turning his head to rest on their bicep. Their hands slide down until they reach the crook of his thighs, seemingly reveling in his ticklish shivers, and nudge him gently downwards. Suzuki confusedly squirms in their hold. They squeeze his bony hips in warning when he makes no effort to move down.

Somewhat disappointed, Suzuki slides off of their lap and to his knees. His shirt catches onto the fabric of their pants and rides up to expose his warmed tummy to the cold air, and he hurriedly tugs it back down once situated on the floor. He sits there in the dark, underneath the desk and facing the whiteboard, until he feels a finger tap the top of his head. _Turn around._

Obediently, Suzuki shifts his body to face what he presumes to be the person’s crotch, but it’s too dark for him to tell for sure. Another tap to his head. He cautiously crawls closer until he’s sat between their spread thighs, something he knows by the scent of fresh linen and arousal on their clothing. He looks up in hopes of placing a face to the stranger that’s fucked him hard enough to forget his name, but the light outside of the room is not enough to illuminate their features. Suzuki tries to ignore the pang of disappointment as he figures out why the person had turned the lights off, and instead focuses on what’s—literally—in front of him. The heat of their crotch is almost tangible. He has the vulgar urge to bury his face in the warmth.

A chuckle carries to his ears from above him, and he flushes in the dark. One of their hands beckons him forward by engulfing the top of his head in its palm and pressing him downwards towards their crotch. Suzuki knows what they want, but he hesitates.

I don’t know how I’m sorry

Their thumb strokes his head reassuringly. He bites his lip and lets his mind wander. He thinks back to all of the porn he’s watched, soon coming to the conclusion that he should probably unzip their pants if he wanted to even attempt any of the blowjob tricks he’d seen online. His hands are shaky when he lifts them up from his lap, blindly groping for purchase on their legs. He bumps the back of his right hand on their left thigh, and he flips it to squeeze their meaty muscle. He slowly follows its path to their crotch. His left hand finds its place on their right thigh and does the same. He finally reaches their crotch with both hands, and he takes the time to palm the warm bulge in wonder. It’s so _big_!

His mouth waters, and he shifts uncomfortably, his arousal neglected.

With a bit more confidence—or urgency—in his movements, Suzuki finds the tab of their zipper and pinches it between his index finger and thumb. He uses his other hand to pull the fabric straight before sliding the zipper down. The teeth make a satisfying noise in the silent room. He touches the exposed part of their boxers and gasps when their cock twitches against the pads of his fingers. His intake of breath causes him to cough, but he doesn’t bother covering his mouth. He nearly snorts while coughing when he feels them twitch against his fingers again. Their cock pulses, straining against the fabric of their boxers, and he licks his lips in anticipation. He drags his index finger down the outline of their penis and almost _whines_ when he feels those _nubs_ through the thin fabric. He takes to rubbing his index finger at a particular area where he can feel the nubs most prominently, fascinated by the sensation. The fingers in his hair twitch intermittently, as if holding themselves back. His own arousal is straining in his pants now, his breaths coming out in quiet puffs of hot air. His mind assaults him with memories.

This was _inside_ of him once. Fucked him until he squirted;'til he passed out, even! Taught him a kind of pleasure that he couldn’t ever give to himself—that probably couldn’t ever be given to him by anything other than _this._

He spreads his knees wide enough for his butt to settle on the ground, and he leans forward excitedly with his tongue peeking out of his mouth. He shifts his hands to their inner thighs, bracing himself for what he was about to do, and he feels their legs shift further apart in compliance. The hand in his hair subtlety urges him forward until his tongue touches their clothed penis, and then it tightens its grip on his head imperceptibly. He boldly flattens his tongue against their pulsing member, dragging it upwards just to feel the fabric scratch at his tongue and the cock twitch in arousal. A hiss sounds from above him. He can’t help but press into their boxers to feel the nubs rub against his tongue, and he wonders how it’d feel without the barrier of the fabric. He’s heady and intoxicated by the heat in and around him, and he paws desperately at their pants in hopes of getting it off. Those nubs seem hard yet fleshy, small yet seemingly large against his tongue, countless in number and he just wants to _feel it_ he just wants to _taste_

_Please please please please_

The hand in his hair abruptly yanks him away from their crotch, and he chokes out a confused whimper. The back of his head stings with the force of their pull, and he doesn’t realize his eyes were closed until they snap open at the sudden movement, his eyelids pulled back in sync with the yanked hair like some kind of Ratatouille parody. His hands tightly grip onto their pants in a plea; he doesn’t want to stop; he just wants to lick it—please just let me lick it please please—but they only tug his head back again in warning, and he recoils, pitifully dropping his hands from their legs. He obediently folds his hands in his lap, shaking. Pitiful tears begin to well up in his eyes, and he tries to blink them back too late; they drip down his face and pitter-patter onto the fabric of his clothes. He’s not aroused anymore. He’s not sure why he’s crying. He’s not even sure why there’s so much pain in his chest—so pathetic so sad too dark

I’m sorry please I’m sorry

The hand in his hair relaxes its hold, almost awkwardly, but doesn’t release him. Quiet sniffles intermixed with frail, wet coughing fill the room, and every hiccup of Suzuki’s body causes their hand to inadvertently pull at his hair. It only acts as a reminder of his mistake. All he wants to do is rest his head on their thighs, he doesn’t need to lick them he just needs comfort but the only contact he has is the hand in his hair and it’s good but it hurts—

The hand suddenly pulls away just as he thinks that, and he nearly breaks down sobbing and begging when the chair screeches and the person presumably stands up. Suzuki is struck with blind panic. He shoots up from his resting position on the floor, scrambling to grasp at their clothing. His mouth opens but no sound comes out. Tears drip down his neck and into his shirt.

Please don’t go I’ll do better please! Please!

He claws at the fabric of their clothing in a frenzy until… there’s no fabric to claw at. A split second of pure, unadulterated terror surges throughout his entire being, and he can’t breathe and his thoughts are racing a mile a minute and he’s so _scared_ —where did they go did they disappear like how they always appear randomly please I don’t want to be alone please just this once—until his hands touch warm skin.

Suzuki pauses. What?

He squeezes the flesh, baffled. He doesn’t have time to process what the hell is going on before the person sits back down onto the chair and pats his head reassuringly. Their fingers thread through his hair and rub apologetically at the sore spots where they’d yanked him. Then, they card their fingers from his hair and travel down to his face. An index finger curls under his jawline and a thumb rubs his chin, lifting his head up slightly. He blinks blindly up at what he hopes to be the person’s head, tears still leaking out of his eyes. Their hand shifts to the side of his head, and their thumb trails up to wipe away the tears from his left eye. He leans into the hand. His sniffles are quieter and less frequent now, but he steadfastly keeps his hands squeezed on their naked thighs, the panic that gripped him leaving him shivering and paranoid.

He’s not sure how long it takes for him to finally relax his tense body. The hand continued to caress his cheek long after he had stopped crying, and he found comfort in its unusual warmth. His knees spread apart once more and his butt touched the cold floor as he sagged downwards. His raspy breathing had evened out after multiple fits of weak coughing cleared his throat enough to let air pass through.

They slide their hand from his cheek and back into his hair to nudge him forwards. Suzuki meekly follows their direction, letting himself be pushed forward until his nose touches something wet.

“!” He recoils immediately, but the hand keeps him from pulling away. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he must’ve touched the person’s penis. As soon as he figures that out, all of the pieces click into place.

Penis, wet. Unclothed. No pants. No boxers. Took off. Gone… after they stood up. Stood up to… make their pants go away. Magically? Like the lights?

“Oh…” He whispers, and he hears them sheepishly chuckle, their hand affectionately ruffling his hair. They weren’t going to leave; they were just going to take their pants off! He has half the mind to bury his face into their right thigh and giggle stupidly, mortified but relieved. “S-sorry,” he can’t stop laughing; it’s embarrassing but he really can’t stop, “I just… um.”

In an attempt to rectify his unfounded panic, Suzuki wraps his right hand around the person’s penis, still giggling. It’s hard and solid and heavy, and the nubs squish whenever he presses down on them with his thumb. He continues to do it, fascinated by the feeling. It entertains him like a toy; a bit like a Lego, or even bubble wrap. He hears a low hum of approval when he runs his thumb across multiple nubs, awed by the way they seem to ripple in his hand. A thrum of arousal settles once more in his belly, and the feeling of it reminds him of why he’d lost it in the first place, sending him into another fit of giggles. This time, it triggers a violent fit of coughing as well, and he’s stuck laughing and hacking at the same time. He feels their cock twitch in his hands again, and it only fuels his amusement.

“W-why are you so—” he can barely whisper through his laughter, “turned on by my c-coughing? You pervert—” The hand in his hair tightens, mockingly offended. God, he just can’t stop _laughing!_

In his defense, though, the person seems just as amused as he is if their breathless chortles were anything to go by. His chest feels light and airy, enjoying the way a hiss would interrupt the person’s laughter every time he kneads their cock’s nubs.

His laughter subsides as his sweatpants tighten with his arousal. He licks his lips when he feels a drop of something wet touch his hand, and he eagerly swipes his thumb up to rub at their slit. He’s rewarded with a squeeze to his head. He swallows the overflowing saliva in his mouth as he starts to move his hand up and down their shaft. The nubs massage the insides of his hand, and all he can think about is how _good_ it would feel to just have them fuck him open right here, right now. Fuck him on top of the same desk he does his lab work on, make him splurt onto the desks that his friends sit in; make his hole clench every time he walks into this classroom when he remembers the feeling of these _nubs_ . A slow _shlick shlick_ of the person’s cock fills the room, nearly as loud as his panting. He doesn’t realize that he’s palming himself in his pants until he has the sudden idea to use both of his hands to work their cock. His left hand reaches up to join his right, and he scoots forward impatiently. The hand in his hair is permanently gripping him now.

He laces his fingers together behind the shaft of their cock, cupping it. Their penis is just large enough to fit into his small hands. He moves his hands up and down the shaft, moving his thumbs independently from the motion. He rubs and plays with the nubs on the front of their shaft using his thumbs, paying extra attention to the ones just underneath their tip. The lewd, wet noises are louder now. He can feel every drop of pre-cum ooze into the pads of his thumbs, and he obsesses over the feeling. He leans forward eagerly with his tongue out to see what their cock and their pre-cum and their nubs feel and taste like when a ringtone blares through the air. He flinches back, snapping his mouth shut, but keeps his hands wrapped around the member. An impatient growl sounds from above.

The ringtone is coming from his phone—his father! Dread drops heavy in his stomach as he remembers the text message that he didn’t reply to. Their hand smooths his hair reassuringly and he hears them lift up the phone, the ringtone warping from the motion. The screen lights up the area above him, and he has a strong urge to glance up just to glimpse at their illuminated face, but he knows better. He rests his head on their thigh and turns away from the light.

A tap to his cheek has him flipping his head, however, and the bright grey light of his phone shines on their glistening cock. He stares at it, transfixed, mouth open.

“Haruhisa.” Suzuki’s eyes flick over to the phone screen. It showcases the name **Father** in bright white text with a counting timer of 00:06. He stays silent, casting his attention back to the cock that glistened in the light. It was so close; he could just stick his tongue out and he’d be able to taste it—

They nudge his cheek with the edge of his phone at the same time his father says, in his deep and monotone Japanese, “ _Are you there_?” He blinks, then remembers that his father was literally on the phone with him while he was in close proximity to a penis. He swallows in excitement, then swallows again to subdue the urge to cough.

 _“Y—"_  his voice rasps as he tries to speak, so he swallows again, _“Yes, I’m here."_  He can feel his breath fan over their cock, and he watches as it pulses with heat. It’s a pretty grey, lavender [color](https://www.color-hex.com/color/c8bbd6), somewhat like frostbitten flesh but warmer. The light also shines onto their thighs, revealing their abnormally pale, almost white, skin. He lazily moves his hand up just to see what the nubs look like when they rub against his hand. A spike of arousal has him closing his knees together when a high _shlick_ sound comes with the motion, and the nubs color a darker purple with the drag upwards. He hopes his father didn’t hear his soft gasp. The nubs shine with a wax-like coating, and they remind him a bit of hardened nipples, but they are firm and round. He wants to shove it down his throat to feel it grind and spread the depths of his esophagus, wants to clench around it with his hole as it scrapes mercilessly against his sweet spot—

“ _Why didn’t you reply to my text?”_ His father’s irritated voice snaps him from his reverie, and Suzuki has to scramble through the muddy memories of heat and panic and sleepiness to formulate a response. They move the phone closer to his mouth.

“ _I…_ _I didn’t see it. I was cleaning.”_ He knows it’s not quite the best excuse; he knows his father is going to yell at him… but he can’t find it in himself to care too much about anything except the tasty cock in front of him. His father sighs, a bit dramatically if you were to ask Suzuki, on the other end of the line. Suzuki takes advantage of the noise to quickly slick his hand up and down their shaft a few times.

“ _Right,”_ his father sounds disappointed, but he’s only half-listening to the lecture he’s given as kneads his thumbs into their glans, reveling in the way their hand tugs his hair in warning. All he wants to do is lick a broad stripe of tongue up their shaft and run his tongue over the nubs again and again, but he knows that he wouldn’t be able to resist popping the tip into his mouth if he does. The wet sucking noises would probably be heard by his father, and he doesn’t fancy getting caught with a penis down his throat.

_“—I will be late today. There is a car accident near Bellaire.”_

Suzuki snaps to attention at that. He stills his hand and licks his lips, flicking his eyes to the small white text at the top of his screen. **16:33** , it reads.

" _When—”_ his mouth is dry and he has to reign in his excitement at the prospect of staying longer; he clears his throat before continuing _“—When do you think you will arrive?”_ The fingers in his hair seem just as excited as he is, stroking the top of his head lovingly.

_“Probably around 5:20, depending on the traffic.”_

His sharp intake of breath has him turning away from the phone to cough, and he unintentionally squeezes the cock in his hands with an obscene squelch. Their hips jerk forwards and a sound that’s not quite pain escapes them, but it’s fortunately covered up by his coughing.

5:20! That’s almost an hour from now!

 _“You’re still coughing?”_ His father asks. Suzuki gives a noncommittal noise in response; he just wants to hurry and hang up. Feeling impatient, he slides his hands up and down their member, not really caring if the wet sounds are heard by his father. The person, seemingly much more considerate of his family‘s views, moves the phone further away from him. It dims his sight.

His father is silent on the line, but he can hear the stifled and static-muffled sounds of cars and street travel. Suzuki’s thumbs are practically soaked and pruned with the person’s pre-cum, and he has the oddest urge to suck his fingers dry. He dances the roof of his mouth with his tongue, practicing what kinds of movements he should try on the actual penis.

 _“I will call you when I’m there. I’ll see you, Haruhisa."_ His father’s voice is but a dull throb in his mind, tingling the sore spots on the back of his head and tickling the itch in his throat.

It’s annoying.

 _“Yes. I’ll see you, Father.”_ He sweetens his voice the way he’s learned to do over the years of his life. The fingers in his hair scratch his scalp lightly, and this time he’s not sure whether it’s in praise or warning. His father hangs up the phone immediately after the farewell, and Suzuki checks the time quickly before the screen is pulled away. **16:36**. Then, he turns his attention back to the beautiful penis and memorizes its shape before everything becomes dark again.

He wastes no time in ducking forward to press a kiss to the base of their cock, right in the middle of the junction between nut sack and shaft. He has to part his hands for his mouth to reach the skin, and he has a childish thought that compares the motion to making a butterfly shadow. His nose brushes up against round, protruding lumps of firm flesh and his mouth is tickled by pretty little threads of coarse hair. He notices how the hand in his hair lets him move freely and doesn’t follow him on his way down. The position makes his back uncomfortably hunched over, so he slides his knees back to arch downwards instead. His erection is now pressed against the ground, the cool floor a welcome sensation to combat the heat. He untangles his left hand from his right and holds onto their thigh, letting him lean all of his weight onto their legs. Using his right hand, he tugs at their cock one, two, three, four times in preparation before flattening his tongue and licking a slow, steady, broad and wet stripe from the base up.

The feeling of the nubs on his tongue is euphoric. With how slow he’s going, he can feel them catch at his rough taste buds and get dragged upwards before getting released with a slight jiggle—only to be dragged upwards again. It kind of feels like he’s licking the buttons of a TV remote; the nubs give way only a little bit before returning to their original shape. A more than pleased purr comes from above him, and their hand pets his hair. There are juices dripping down his tongue that he can’t quite taste yet, and the smell of musk makes his head spin. He savors the massage his tongue receives and drags it out until he can feel a rather prominent lump, firmer than the rest, dig into his tongue. He figures that it’s the nub right below their slit, so he narrows his tongue to harden the appendage and plays with it, flicking and circling it with the tip of his tongue. Their hand falters in his hair, and he files the information for later, pulling back to swallow his collected fluid.

The instant he closes his mouth, however, an explosion of flavor tingles every fiber of his being, and he refrains from swallowing to savor the taste. It’s salty, almost umami, and pleasantly spicy. It warms the inside of his mouth and his saliva seems to overflow the longer he keeps it in. Some of it drips to the back of his throat and he has to swallow to avoid gagging. He almost orgasms at the feeling of it traveling down his throat. Its consistency is unusually thick and syrupy as it slides down the depths inside of him despite it having been much more watery in his mouth, and it coats his esophagus with unusual warmth.

The itch in his throat, which was constant for so long he’d forgotten how it felt without it, nearly dissolves underneath the slimy fluid. The feeling is _just nearly_ as good as an orgasm. He’s shivering and panting into the air. He doesn’t realize that tears have slipped out of his eyes until their fingers rub his wet cheeks in question. A soft smile graces his wet lips. He answers by leaning forward and lapping at the nub just below their slit. The thumb that had been rubbing his under-eye digs its nail into his skin, but it’s not to reprimand him; it’s more like the person above him just lost their composure. They smooth over the crescent-shaped nail indent apologetically after he pulls away, and he giggles breathily. He swallows his collected fluid once more, and he can’t help but shudder as the liquid pervades his body.

He uses his right hand to jerk them off at a steady pace as he plans his next action, letting the slick sounds of pre-cum and flesh spur his mind. He tests the dexterity of his tongue on the roof of his mouth again. It tickles him and leaves a lingering feeling of dissatisfaction. Without thinking much of it, Suzuki leans forward, gauges the position of their cock using his hand, licks from the bottom of the slit’s nub, then engulfs their entire tip with his mouth. An involuntary moan escapes the back of his throat when he feels the cock throb. Within his mouth, he tongues eagerly at their urethra to stimulate more pre-cum release. A second hand joins the one in his hair and holds him tight.

His left hand can feel their tense muscles ripple underneath its palm, and it arouses him knowing that they probably want nothing more than to shove their cock down his throat. He slides his mouth down just a tiny bit more and deliberately grates the tip of his tongue against the nub below their slit, a reward for their self-control. Their hips jerk forward and their nails dig into his scalp; a spurt of pre-cum hits the back of his tongue, and he swallows, humming appreciatively as it soothes his throat like honey. A warning growl sends delighted shivers down his spine, and he hums again, this time mischievously. He breathes a giggle through his nose when one of their hands playfully scratch his sore spots in revenge.

He wraps his right hand firmly around the base of their cock. Their pubic hair tickles the bottom of his hand. The cock’s nubs, seemingly equally spaced a centimeter apart with some clusters of three or four closer together, press stickily into his hand. He pops their tip out of his mouth to lap at it as he finds a proper hand position to jerk them off comfortably, scooting forwards a bit to facilitate the motion. Once settled, he replaces his mouth on their glans and bobs his head slowly, in small intervals. His lip slips and slides against the nub below their slit on every up movement. He twists his hand up and down the exposed part of their shaft in sync with his head motions, still marveling at the strange sensation of fleshy bubble wrap.

He can only hope he’s doing this right; the only experience he has is from curious experiments with bananas after reading “10 Tips For Giving a Great Blowjob" in the wee hours of the morning.

As if on cue, the hands in his hair praise him by curling in his strands. Their hands gently nudge at his head, encouraging him to swallow further, and he obliges. He stills his tongue and flattens it underneath their tip, feeling it weigh on the appendage. His hand is still moving up and down their shaft as he slides his head downwards, letting gravity do most of the work as he slowly feeds their cock into his mouth. His body is scooted up closer now and he’s sat up straighter. He’s only able to go halfway before his mouth feels too full and he’s struggling to breathe through his nose. He runs his tongue along the underside of their cock curiously, tracing a river between each nub valley then passing over it all with a widened lick. The saliva in his mouth overflows a bit too much, and he feels drool pool at the corners of his mouth, so he swallows instinctively. The action causes him to involuntarily suck in his cheeks, and the fingers in his hair twitch. He notes the reaction with interest.

Their fingers gently pull his hair back, and he gets the memo. He inches backwards, feeling the round lumps pop out of his mouth one by one. Another moan escapes his throat as it reminds him of the first time he’d gotten breached by this cock. It was so unexpected—the nubs… but it had ended up feeling so _good_. He curls his tongue up against the underside of their shaft to feel each nub massage the top edge of his tongue, sliding his mouth to their tip. They inhale sharply at his clever trick.

He only realizes that his mouth must’ve been stretched obscenely around their cock when he’s finally back at the start, the area thinnest in girth. The corners of his mouth are sore and his jaw has a dull throbbing pain; it’s so… inherently _lewd_ that it makes his arousal twitch in his pants. He suckles at their tip and swallows his pre-cum mixed saliva, noticing again how their fingers twitch in his hair. A new blossoming warmth settles in his chest, dripping down his esophagus. He flicks the little nub at their slit, just for good measure, before beginning his gradual descent back to the halfway point.

Suzuki isn’t sure how long he continues the leisure bobbing of his head. He just knows that every time he went back down, he became more and more unsatisfied with how much he could fit in his mouth. Exposed nubs would ghost at the very edges of his lips, and he’d force himself to accommodate more of their cock inside his mouth to slurp in a new lump for his tongue to play with. It’d happen again and again, and it progressed far enough for him to have a cock stuffed to the very back of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to breach the barrier of his throat.

He whines, high and needy, begging for something he doesn’t know how to say. He’s sweating now, beads of sweat and tears dripping down his neck and soaking his clothing. His nose is breathing pitifully in sniffles; the air stuffy and oxygen-starved. Both of his hands are gripped on the person’s thighs, his right hand having left their cock after his mouth became too greedy. His tongue twists and kneads obsessively at the nubs inside of his mouth, but it’s _not enough!_ He pulls his head back until he’s at the very tip again, and he hollows his cheeks in a powerful suck, curling his tongue and rubbing at the slit’s nub. He’s rewarded with a rumbling purr. Hopeful and re-energized, Suzuki descends back down, suckling every inch, until he reaches his previous stopping point. There’s nearly two and a half inches left until the base. Any more and he’s surely going to gag—he’s not even sure how he hasn’t gagged already, but he coughs it up to their syrupy pre-cum easing the cock’s passage through his mouth. He whines again, and this time the hands in his hair massage his head purposely. Their hands slide until they cup the sides of his head, then tilt his chin slightly upwards. Their thumbs caress his cheeks reassuringly, and he feels himself relaxing in their hold. Their body temperature is abnormally high, but Suzuki loves the heat.

Then, he feels them nudge their cock against the closing of his throat. A surge of fear threatens to bubble up his esophagus, but a rub to his cheek calms his nerves. His grip on their thighs loosen, and his entire body becomes pliant in their hands. They push into him slowly, steadily, and their hands ease him whenever he starts to tense. His mouth is stretched to its limit long before they slip their entire tip behind his uvula and the opening of his throat. He moans around the head of their cock when he feels that _nub_ below their slit grind right into a spot in the depths of his channel, scratching a deep itch that sends his body into shivers, then whimpers helplessly as several other nubs scrape it on their way down. He tightens their grip on their thighs as he shudders through an orgasm, his eyes rolling back into his head. His knees twitch inward and his toes curl beneath his buttocks. His mouth is so _full._ Their hands hold his head steady as they continue to invade his body with their cock, and he’s crying and sniffling because _it feels so good oh my god_ and he’s orgasming again, his underwear wet with cum. His nostrils whistle with every breath until finally, _finally,_  his nose presses into their pubic hair and the last nub pops into him.

Saliva dribbles from the corners of his mouth, and he tries to swallow around the penis that’s literally shoved down his throat. He receives a guttural growl in response and they thrust their hips into his mouth, grinding and anchoring the nubs in the insides of his esophagus. He mewls, squirming as a shock of pleasure over-stimulates his penis, feeling like a burn in his urethra. He drops his hands from their thighs and steadies himself by placing them palm-down on the floor between his knees. His head is spinning and drunk with pleasure and oxygen deprivation and all he can think about is the cock in his mouth, there’s a cock in his mouth, he came with a cock in his mouth but it’s still not _enough_

_Please please please I need more_

They remove one hand from his head. Only a single hand is used to thread itself into his hair; only a single hand is used to yank his hair back to pop the cock out of his throat until the halfway point. The nubs send jolts of pleasure down his spine and he jerks every time a cluster of nubs rubs directly on that spot in his throat. He attempts to massage some of the nubs with his tongue, which was freer now at the tip, but they suddenly slam their cock back down his throat before he can even try. He chokes on a whine, sending vibrations from his throat to the tip of their cock. Their relaxed hum of approval scares him but sets his nerves alight with arousal.

They don’t bother pulling the tip of their cock out of his throat anymore, instead opting to leisurely roll their hips into him to press at his sensitive spots. He can do naught but take it with a stride, panting heavily through his nose, unable to move except to twitch and quiver with pleasure. At some point one of his hands snaked beneath his pants to fondle his own penis, and he whimpers around their member as he remembers the feeling of getting fucked. They’d stretched him wide open, just as they were doing now, and took what they wanted without much consideration of his pleas to stop.

He starts to jerk himself in his pants, thinking back to the forceful way they’d kept him silent in the onslaught of pleasure, and then he spurts pitifully fast into his hand; a weak orgasm accompanied only by a clench of his hole. A dark chuckle from above him has him mewling and touching his little penis again, rubbing and teasing his tip at the same tempo the cock in his mouth thrusts in and out. They continue their pattern of leisure thrusting, increasing small increment by small increment.

By the time his mouth grows accustomed to their girth, they’re pounding into his throat, yanking his hair forcefully, and he’s rubbing himself through orgasm after orgasm. He massages and kneads his glans just as every thrust into his mouth slams the slit’s nub into the spot in his throat, and then he’s coming again, again and again until he squirts into his hand and there’s snot oozing from his nostrils and he’s sobbing around their cock making breathless keens and moans that are too loud but his own thumb digs into his slit and oh _my GOD I—_

A woman’s laugh sounds from afar, and his attention zones in on it—he squirts into his hand again and he feels an explosion of pleasure that strikes his body for only a split second before his blood runs cold and he realizes— somebody is outside of the classroom door— the person seems to notice at the same time he does and they let out a bark of sadistic laughter— it’s their first real sound and his head swims with echoes of their voice—

_No no no please wait please_

Suzuki scrambles to escape from the person’s hold, wrenching his hand from underneath his pants to push away from them. He flips his numbed knees from underneath him to kick backwards, his shoes squeaking on the floor. He chokes on the cock still in his mouth, and he tries to tear his head from the hands holding him still. He only hears another amused sound before their hand cups the back of his head and yanks him back forward. Gravity shifts as he’s manhandled upwards with them when they stand up. He’s forced to his knees and his hands desperately claw at their naked thighs, scratching and drawing blood in hopes of getting them to let go. His nose is pressed into their pubic hair and he can’t breathe. He tries to lift his knee up to get his foot under him but it’s useless—he’s too weak, his legs are wobbly, he _can’t_ , and their cock forcefully crushes against the walls of his canal at the very back of his throat. He gags, sobbing in reflex, feeling the nubs grate against that _spot,_ but then he hears the muffled chatter of women from outside and he reigns in his noises. He can feel their smirk taunt him in the dark.

They thrust mercilessly into his mouth, not seeming to care about the loud gurgling sounds that permeate the room. Their fingers grip his hair and use it as leverage to pound nice and deep into his esophagus, enjoying the way his entire body seems to jerk with the momentum like a rag doll. Suzuki could hear himself gagging and choking, sniffing and gargling; he scratches at the textured chair behind the person in an attempt to steady himself, and tears and drool drip down the column of his neck. He could hear himself getting violated _while_ the women laugh amongst themselves outside the room, unknowingly within 30 feet of a student getting raped; he has to be quieter—

A pulse of hot white pleasure erupts in his mind at the thought of being discovered just as the person decides to bury their cock to the hilt and gyrate their hips in a circle, scraping their slit’s nub violently against the sweet spot in his throat and he’s coming; he blacks out just as he feels a high pressure spurt of whatever liquid his cock has left; he has the vaguest clue that he’s wailing with his mouth still stuffed; and then he’s back. They continue to pound his mouth as if nothing happened, but he’s pressed right up against them and he’s clawing at their back again because he _feels it he feels it oh my god_

It feels like a cock is driving its wide girth through his hole, mashing his prostate with as much enthusiasm as the person skull-fucking him has. His eyes are rolled back and he’s half-lidded and his tongue is raw in his mouth from the continuous rubbing—he can taste blood and he’s sure it’s from his bleeding taste buds—and he cums again—then again as liquid is forced from his cock and he can hear himself; he can hear his desperate gargling and the quick wet schlops as they fuck his throat and he begs for them to just _stop_ but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop _god he doesn’t want it to stop it feels so good so good more more PLEASE!_

A snarl rips from their throat, and that’s the only warning Suzuki gets before he’s flooded with a thick, mellow, and sweet syrup. It moves like molasses in his mouth. Its taste is unusually… familiar, but Suzuki is too far gone to place it. He moans dumbly, feebly trying to swallow it down his throat. It oozes down the confines of his esophagus by itself and he surrealistically feels it drip from his hole. He’s vaguely aware that he’s coming, convulsing and trembling as liquid dribbles from his cock down his legs and underneath his sweatpants; it feels _good_ it feels _amazing_ but his mind is so overwhelmed that he can’t comprehend it— but then the pleasure abruptly slams into him, hard enough for him to black out and he’s overwhelmed again— His body works on autopilot to keep him from suffocating, keeping his throat functioning and flexing to accommodate their cum.  

They keep their cock sheathed inside of him until he swallows the very last drop of fluid, and he’s conscious enough to chase the taste of sweetened spice as they pull out of his mouth. They chuckle when he grapples for them anxiously _—please don’t go yet—_ and he doesn’t settle down until they brush their fingers against his stained cheeks lovingly. He lets himself be jostled forward until his head is eased onto the chair. They smooth down his damp hair and caress him until his body releases its tension, and he slumps his entire body weight downwards. He’s still quivering and shuddering from the force of his orgasm, his knees sliding apart on the floor. He can’t quite catch his breath and his jaw hurts and he’s positive that he must be bald on some parts of his head, but somehow he can’t be too bothered by any of it. The coppery taste of iron blends well with the mellowed sweetness of their cum. The itch in his throat is finally gone, and it’s replaced by a raw feeling of defilement. It gives him a carnal sense of satisfaction.

He swallows just to feel the sore muscles of his esophagus work, and the familiar sting of blood in the back of his throat soothes him.  A ghost of worry dances across his mind, and he’s led to wonder where the women outside went. He concentrates what little alertness he has left on his hearing, but the hallway is silent. He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that they didn’t hear him.

He feels a tap to his cheek, and he sluggishly turns his head towards a bright light, squinting his eyes.

  
**17:27** , his phone reads. His father is late.


	2. fun dip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suzuki learns something new (sfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra crack chapter. no nsfw here. 
> 
> decided suzuki should probably get something more vanilla after what i put him thru last chapter haha

**7:03 AM, Before the Bell**

“Happy Valentine’s y’all!” Michael’s booming voice makes Suzuki jump in his seat. He turns to the source of the voice and finishes chewing his lumpy, syrup-coated pancake. His eyes widen as he takes in Michael’s ridiculous t-shirt with heart-eyed cats plastered on it. His friend’s pants are bright pink. The outfit is finished off with a denim jacket and baby blue sneakers.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Grace’s disgusted voice speaks Suzuki’s thoughts for him, and he takes another bite of his pancake with a barely concealed snort. He immediately cringes at the bready taste but forces himself to swallow it anyway. The school’s breakfast is always terrible, but it’s the only thing that keeps him nourished until lunch.

Linh and Julie are laughing unabashedly at their friend’s hideous outfit. Suzuki looks around at the other cafeteria tables and notices that people are staring at Michael in interest, whispering and pointing and giggling. None are in malice, however; Michael is relatively well-liked and has good relations with almost every “department clique” in the school. If anything, the people seem to be impressed by his confidence and… _“style.”_ Those in the school’s  theatre performance group look the most impressed.

“Suzuki, my boy, what do ya think?” Michael asks when Suzuki turns his head back and meets his eyes. He poses dramatically: running his hand through his wind-tousled hair, squinting his eyes, and puckering his lips.

Suzuki face twists and looks at him in half-mock and half-true horror. The rest of the table bursts into another bout of laughter; “He’s doing the lightskin face!” Julie shouts a bit too loudly, and even Suzuki can’t help but giggle at the stunningly accurate remark. Michael joins in the group’s contagious laughter, then pulls another “lightskin” face.  The other cafeteria tables seem to have heard Julie’s joke as well, and they snicker alongside the group of friends.

“Yo Michael, I like your shirt!” A passing sophomore calls out with a silly grin. Michael looks over his shoulder and recognizes their face, returning their grin with one of his own. He turns to them with a step backwards and pinches the fabric of his shirt with both his middle fingers and thumbs, lifting it upwards. He tugs the fabric up and down, fanning it out.

“Thanks dude, I got this shit at Goodwill!” Michael doesn’t seem to care about the assistant principal that’s in hearing distance as he curses loudly. The other sophomore guffaws and walks away with a jazzy wave. A small smile on his own face, Suzuki watches as the teacher on duty hides her amusement behind her hand, standing guard in a corner near the overly cheerful boy in a ludicrous outfit. He shifts his eyes back over to Michael just as he tosses his head back to look straight at the table group, mainly Suzuki and Julie, and says— with a stupid smile stretched across his face—

“They call me ranch ‘cause I be dressin’.” Suzuki already knew what was about to come out of his friend’s mouth long before the very first word was spoken; it was written in the stars and in his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the Japanese boy from laughing loudly. It’s a liberating feeling without the never-ending and ever-present need to cough, and he basks in its glory for as long as he can. Howling laughter fills the air as he and his friends tease and play around with Michael’s outfit. Even Linh and Grace, the more sensible ones of the group, are reduced to tears when Michael starts catwalking down the cafeteria aisles. They’re all half-aware of the mixed stares they’re receiving, some amused and some clearly annoyed and some completely baffled, but at this point they don’t really care.

“He’s so fucking—” Grace can’t even finish her sentence, but everybody nods enthusiastically in agreement, trying to catch their breaths after another round of laughter. Everyone watches in as Michael waltzes over to a group of girls who’ve been looking at them for a long time— Suzuki recognizes some of them as juniors from his AP US History tutorials— and winks at them, leaning onto their lunch table. His mouth moves as he speaks and his eyebrows waggle exaggeratedly. The girls play along with his gag and giggle over-effeminately as they bat at his arms playfully. Suzuki can’t tell if he’s embarrassed for his friend or proud of him.

“Damn,” a voice says from behind, and Suzuki jumps for the second time this morning, whipping his head around to see a familiar face. It’s his assigned chemistry partner, Hayden. He’s holding a large pink Valentine’s bag of assorted candy by a string. “Think I can pull something like that off?” He asks, referring to Michael’s absurd performance.

Suzuki’s “probably not” is drowned out by the outstanding “no” given by everyone else.

“That’s something only a good-looking person could do,” Grace says bluntly. It takes a moment for everyone to realize the implication she made, and Hayden looks so offended once he processes it that Suzuki can’t help but burst into giggles. Julie joins him soon after. Linh looks just as shocked as Hayden with a hand covering her wide open mouth, but she eventually breaks into laughter as well, snickering into her hand. Grace is as straight-faced as she is while taking a test, but she seems to take pity on poor Hayden and says in an overly sweet voice, “It’s also something only an idiot would do, so don’t worry too much.”

Hayden closes his gaping mouth with a click, looking at Grace in a comically incredulous manner. He dramatically scrunches his face up and puckers his lips, drawing his chin inwards and tilting his head to the side. Julie cackles at his expression, “You look like the Asian version of that one [meme](https://i.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/original/000/021/557/conceit.JPG)!” Everyone immediately knows what she’s talking about, and the group’s laughter is revitalized. Suzuki sees Julie lift her phone up to snap a photo of Hayden’s face, but he opens his mouth to speak before she can tap the shutter button.

“You know, I was about to give y’all this candy, but nevermind.” Just as he turns to leave, purposely swishing his bag of candy, Julie and Linh nearly jump out of their seats.

“Wait wait wait—” “Let’s talk about this, Hayden—”

Hayden turns back around with a playful grin. “Just kidding.” The two girls go silent as he hands the bag to them. “Y’all really some roaches though…” he mutters as they snatch the bag out of his hand.

They ignore him, peeking curiously into the bag together. Julie reaches her hand in and pulls out a small store-bought Valentine’s card, and Hayden visibly pales. Suzuki hears Michael’s obnoxiously loud laugh from behind him, and he turns to see his friend trying to waltz with a girl from the group he walked up to. Suzuki immediately turns back around.

“Hi baby,” Julie reads from the card, “Happy Valentine’s Day. I just wanted you to know that you’re so hot and sexy and I just want to eat you up. Enjoy these…” she’s laughing through her words, “...enjoy these _scrumptious_ snacks of mine. Love, Madeline.”

“Is that actually what it says?” Linh asks incredulously as she snatches the card to read it. She bursts out in shocked laughter when she finds that it is, indeed, what it actually says.

“Isn’t Madeline the chick dating Ethan? The stupid one?” Grace asks, standing up to peek at the card.

Hayden shrugs. He looks like he’s about to puke, and to be honest, so is Suzuki.

“I thought she was, but then she gave that to me.” Hayden says, slipping a hand into a pocket in his jacket. He leans his weight on one foot, then shifts it nervously to the other. Suzuki suddenly remembers that Hayden has a girlfriend already.

“And you’re giving us her candy?” Linh asks, reaching in and pulling out a pack of Smarties. She looks at it for a second before pocketing it, flipping open her purse and closing it with a magnetic snap. “Her… scrumptious snacks?”

Hayden rolls his eyes as everyone chuckles. “I’on really like sweet things like that,” he explains, “There’s a lotta Jolly Ranchers and Nerds in there. Think there’s that dip thing too.” He slips his phone from his back pocket, seemingly checking for the time. Suzuki has a feeling he’s also checking for a text message, though, specifically from his girlfriend.

Julie hums in acknowledgement and then promptly dumps the bag onto the cafeteria table, sending some pieces of candy scattering to the floor. Suzuki and Grace bend underneath the table automatically to pick them up, and he sneaks a couple of Fun Dips into his coat pocket.

He’s always liked those since he was young.

 

**8:02 AM, 1st Period World History AP**

“So the colonists begin fighting the revolution against the British at the Battle of Lexington and Concord. Nobody knows who shot the first shot, but there was this famous quote about it which is…” Lewis trails off, clearly waiting for a student to finish her sentence. She glances around the room as the class stares at her awkwardly and stays silent.

Suzuki accidentally makes eye contact with her, and he’s obligated to answer. “‘The shot heard around the world,’” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. She repeats it for the class to jot it down, looking pleased with herself and with him.

For some reason, she decides to ask another question despite the lack of response from the class the entire period. “Does anyone know what that means?”

Again, silence. She looks over to him expectantly, and he’s about to answer before someone pipes up from the back of the room with “Everyone heard it..?” Lewis snaps her eyes to whoever said that, her head doing a weird rotation as if to center her vision on their face.

“Not quite. What does hearing it cause people in other countries to do?” she asks instead. Her eyes travel back to him. “Suzuki?” Her nasal Texan accent on his name grates his ears, but he’s used to it.

He’s a bit annoyed, but he also feels bad for her. Nobody ever answers her questions, and it’s common knowledge that he knows the history of the US through and through. It’s expected for him to answer, so he obliges.

“Revolt.” he says simply. Lewis smiles and presses a button on her remote. A new Powerpoint slide appears on the projected screen, and she reads off of it word for word. Everyone is quick to copy the notes down. Suzuki doesn’t even bother looking up to read the slide, instead relying on just her voice to guide his notes.

It’s the exact same as what’s on the Powerpoint anyway. Lewis is a terrible lecturer.

He notices some people in the class munching on Valentine’s chocolates, so he takes out a Fun Dip from his pocket. The wrapping crinkles in his hand. Rather than focusing on the “lecture” being given, he concentrates on opening only the part of the packet where the white candy bar is located. The powder would be too messy to eat right now. A peculiar combination of words catches his eyes, and the phrase “Cherry Yum Diddly Dip” amuses him when he reads the packaging over again.

“—and there was a turning point in the war. It was called..?” He hears Lewis say.

“Saratoga,” he answers automatically. He’s got the white candy bar out of its packaging now.

“And it was a turning point because…”

“The colonists won.”

“Yes, but only the second part of the battle. The British army, allied with some Natives and Germans, were sent to the Americas expecting an easy win, which they got the first time they fought. They had much more advanced weaponry and were professionally trained, while…”

“The Americans relied on a civilian militia made of volunteers.” He gingerly folds up the paper wrapping.

“The American win draws the attention of…”

“France.”

“As well as several other European nations interested in sabotaging British hegemony. However, France was most interested in helping out the Americans because…”

“They could use them as a means to get revenge on the British for the French-Indian War.” He places the white candy bar on top of his phone, which was flipped over on his desk.

“So the French supply Americans with weapons, military equipment, and troops. An important military leader during this time period was the leader of the main military body called…”

“The Continental Army.” He gingerly picks up the white candy bar and puts about a third of it into his mouth. He licks at it excitedly in his mouth, waiting for the sweet taste.

“And the leader was…”

“George Washington.” As the candy bar warms and its top coat dissolves in his mouth, Suzuki realizes that it tastes… oddly familiar.

“He commanded many victories for the Americans with his military knowledge and tactical warfare. He was in charge of—”

“What the _fuck?”_ Suzuki whispers a bit too loudly. Everyone in the room stills, and Lewis goes silent in surprise, cutting off mid-sentence. It’s deathly stale for approximately three seconds before the class erupts in laughter. Even Lewis, the _teacher_ , lets out a surprised giggle and looks at him as if he can’t believe he just said that.

He really should just crawl in a hole and die, huh?

His face is beet red and he’s sweating as he scrambles to explain. He takes a deep breath, then says loudly over the sound of laughing teenagers:

“S-sorry. My candy bar just tastes like—” **the cum I swallowed two days ago** “—um… and I wasn’t expecting it to taste like… that. Um.”

**Author's Note:**

> a little more background on suzuki in this one. i’ll explain why his father calls him haruhisa later on (it’s nothing groundbreaking). 
> 
> barely edited. please forgive my mistakes.


End file.
